


ang kabiyak ng aking puso ay itim at puti

by lunkai



Series: ay irog ko [1]
Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Datu!Reader - Freeform, F/M, THEN I DEFY YOU STARS i say as i write this fanfiction that hurts me more, im so. soft. i found. post spiderman noir run spoilers. am angry soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 18:55:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17473112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunkai/pseuds/lunkai
Summary: “You’d make a fine husband,” you say, apropos of nothing, as you trace patterns in Peter’s scalp.“How would that work?”“Do you mean that I am from the year 1651 and you are from 1933, or do you mean my wedding customs?”





	ang kabiyak ng aking puso ay itim at puti

**Author's Note:**

> I was supposed to write about the progression of this relationship but I came home from a wedding and I just. Feel feelings
> 
> the short version: You’re a Spider-Person from the Philippines circa 1650s, and you got bitten by a lethally poisonous spider that was sent to your uncle first, so by the time it bit you it only had enough poison to give you Spider-abilities or w/e 
> 
> Please listen to [this instrumental song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OpuCrqVFfMY) for best results
> 
> you’re also the chief of the tribe because you’re the sole surviving member of your family thanks

“You’d make a fine husband,” you say, apropos of nothing, as you trace patterns in Peter’s scalp. One of your hands is on his belly, and you remember to stroke it a little. His abdominal muscles do not relax, but it is to be expected. He is fine with you lightly scratching his scalp still, and that gives you joy.

He tests the word on his tongue. “Husband,” he hums. “Husband…” He would call you his wife, then, and that would bring him such sweet, bright joy. He already feels in your presence. He has since stopped playing with matches since you two have begun seeing each other.

Not because it worries you – it does – but because the sight of you alone is enough to stir his heart.

(He is afraid, then, that when you must return to your dimension and he his, that you might be hurt and never return, maybe even die, or worse, find someone else to love.)

“How would that work?”

“Do you mean that I am from the year 1651 and you are from 1933, or do you mean my wedding customs?”

“ _Your_ wedding customs?” he parrots, amusement taking over from his usual dry tone.

“Yes. As Datu, I must have a husband, and an heir. My council has been pressing me as of late, to pick a husband.”

“And you haven’t gotten married yet because all of them keep losing to you in single combat.”

Your smile is mischievous. He loves to watch it stretch across your face. It is not quite slow, and it is not quite quick. Just right – it is just right enough for him to see just how pleased you are with yourself. “ _Yes_.”

Of course. An average person could not hope to best you. He reaches a gloved hand up, up, presses it to your cheek. “You’re a crafty kitten, ain’cha.”

You’ve stayed with him long enough to know when his emotions shine through his words. He is amused at you, and you are only happy that you can draw such reactions from him. Your smile shifts into something softer, blissful.

You’re not done. Nor are you joking.

“Tradition dictates that you must work for a certain amount of time for my family.” He catches an extra beat just before you say the word ‘ _family_.’ It’s there for but a split second, anyone else would let it slip by or outright ignore it, but not him.

You don’t have anyone left, after all.

He’s just so dizzy with you that he asks, “How long?” before he can think about the question.

“Months. Maybe years, if my council likes. I think they’ll have you work for at least a year, since they do not know who you are.”

Your nails lightly scratch along his jaw, and you add, “You’re supposed to fetch water and cut wood for me. But I would love for you to fight by my side. Perhaps I can ask that of my council.” You drag the backs of your knuckles along his cheek, smiling to yourself. “I am sure they will lessen your time when they see just how well you can defend the tribe.”

_(He ignores the facts that stare him dead in the face: You both live in different dimensions; you live in different countries; both your standing and the current situation between you and potential colonizers prevent him from being accepted into your home with open arms; he has to keep the scum of 1933 New York at bay.)_

It could work. He’s seen you fight over the months you’ve known each other, and you aren’t the chief of your tribe just because you’re its last living royal daughter.

His warrior wife. The thought of it makes his heart hot.

“Once you’ve finished your work, the ceremony itself can begin. We will start by going to your house–”

“Don’t have a house. Not even a cave,” Peter interrupts.

“Then I will have one made for you,” you reply smoothly. Like it is nothing to have a house made. A house to live in. Something that isn’t infested by rats. Something that doesn’t smell like cigarette smoke and the misery of humanity.

“–And you must wait for me on the second floor. I will act shy and refuse to go up. Someone will give me a gift, which is my signal to go upstairs. We will drink from the same cup, and then be joined over a plate of uncooked rice. And so, we will be married! Hooray!”

Peter only chuckles softly. “Sounds kippy.”

“And we will eat and drink and be happy and live together. We will be unstoppable.”

 _Unstoppable_.

Your husband.

He’d get to be _your_ husband.

He’d get to be with you every day, from sunup to sundown.

_(He remembers the facts. He remembers an extra one: Everyone he loves perishes beneath his touch.)_

“What do you think, mahal ko? Aces? ”

He knows you enough that even as you ask it, you know it will never come to pass. But even though he says "Aces," too, in the same tone as you, he will keep it. The image of it.

 

You are in a house made of wood and you sit next to him. A plate of rice is laid under your joined hands.

You may now kiss the bride.

**Author's Note:**

> not sure if these tears are because i've been up for 4 hours trying to get a noir/reader fic out or because iM ANGRY AND I WANT TO BE A PRINCESS IN 1651 AND GET MARRIED TO THE MONOCHROMATIC MAN OF MY DREAMS


End file.
